


Walk Like A Man, My Son

by romangold



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Found Family, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, PTSD symptoms, Past Child Abuse, Phobias, Thomas's bad poetry, implied/referenced PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romangold/pseuds/romangold
Summary: Pat is still stuck with old fears he thought he would leave behind in death. Thankfully, he finds that family doesn't have to be the people you're stuck with when you're born.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 82





	Walk Like A Man, My Son

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags before reading! This fic deals with references to childhood emotional abuse and the issues that stem from that.
> 
> That being said, please enjoy!

Pat wrung his hands outside the door of the kitchen, trying to recall what he had told his scouts all those years ago about what to do when you start to feel all “squirmy” in your insides, and your leg jitters get so bad that you could leap into the clouds and hide from all of your problems.

Funny, that. Ghosts weren’t supposed to get the leg jitters– unless, of course, it was to make the chains around their bed sheet rattle and clank.

No, Pat certainly had the jitters. Regular human ones. He had always tried to add in lessons for the boys that were considered a bit “unorthodox” by other scout leaders. “Emotional wellness”, Pat called it, and made it clear that it was every bit as important as knowing how to start a fire. Everyone had emotions, so why not make sure those young boys were learning how to name and regulate them? Otherwise, they'd be out of control.

Like fear and anxiety, which Pat was having his own time regulating, despite being quite deceased. Of course, there was nothing to be embarrassed about (there was another one), so he shouldn’t have a problem with striding in and asking for a favor.

Then again, there was nothing to be afraid of, either, in the first place. Yes, Pat could learn to deal with this perfectly fine, no problem, he’d just march away and–

“You alright, there, mate?”

Pat clutched at his chest and squealed, turning sharply to find Alison standing just outside of the kitchen door, her gaze curious.

“Oh! You gave me a bit of a–”

“A spook?” Alison supplied; she chuckled at her own joke before observing Pat’s demeanor. “You alright?” she tried again.

Pat looked down at his own hands. “Well, I– I just– I wanted to ask if you might...be able to perhaps do me a very small favor?”

Though slightly suspicious, Alison had more reason to trust that Pat’s request would be somewhat within reason, so she crossed her arms and nodded. “Sure, what is it?”

Pat looked up and down and around the hall, squinting his eyes for a foot or article of clothing sticking out from some hiding place that would give away someone eavesdropping. When the coast looked clear, he sighed.

“I was just...wanting to know...if you could, possibly, if at all, of course, maybe, er, leave the lights on in my room.”

He could see the apprehension on Alison’s face before she even responded. “Just at night!” he added. “And I could remind you to shut it off in the mornings so you don’t waste electricity. It’s just one room– I won’t ever ask for anything besides this, honest.”

Alison pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Pat, you know the money’s tight.” She snapped her fingers with an idea. “What about one of those candelabras upstairs? I’ll put it in your room and light them for you when it gets dark.”

Pat nodded. It wasn’t quite as good (candlelight was dull and flickered, never quite managing to shed any soothing light on those nasty, frightening corners– and they made the eeriest of shadows jump and tremble around the room), but it was a compromise he would have to take. Besides, she was going even more out of her way to help him, now, lighting all of those candles, and Pat felt guilty for asking in the first place.

“Thank you, Alison. I appreciate it. And...it’s not something the others have to know, if you know what I mean.” He looked pointedly at her.

She gave him a thumbs up. “Lips sealed.”

* * *

Pat wasn’t afraid of the dark. That would be silly. He was a scout leader and a fully-formed adult. Moreover, he was a _ghost_. He was supposed to be the scary thing, not the other way around.

Although he had never slept well to begin with, it only worsened after marrying Carol. She couldn’t sleep at all with any lights on in the room, so Pat said nothing about not being able to sleep _without_ any lights on. When he did sleep, it wasn’t for very long.

It actually became much easier for Pat after their son was born, since his crying in the dead of night gave him something to do. Even better that he loved the little thing to death and back. Carol would very often find Pat fast asleep on the couch in the morning, lamp on next to him, little Daly resting on his chest.

Those were the best nights for Pat.

Camping nights with the troop were the nights when he slept without issue. Though he missed Daly and Carol to bits, he could keep his scout lamp on low, and told the boys that he did so just in case anyone needed him during the night.

Pat always felt quite safe out in nature. The neat corners of a bedroom never were as welcoming.

* * *

The thunderstorm was not so bad as the one that took Pat’s tree down, though it did send the windows clattering with the wind it was kicking up.

Pat was walking and talking with the Captain, discussing old ways they both recalled on how to weather a storm outside without any immediate shelter.

The power went out without warning.

Pat’s breath caught in his throat. There was, all of a sudden, nothing ahead of or behind him. Just a vast darkness with no end.

After what were the longest seconds of his death, the lights flickered once, twice, and then came back on. Pat blinked. They were in the hallway. He sighed and shuddered, attempting to abate the horror that had fallen over him like a bed sheet.

“A- _hem_.”

Pat looked up at the Captain, who was fixing him with an odd look.

“If you would be so kind as to release me,” the Captain said in a terse tone. “I am _not_ a cuddly toy.”

Pat looked down, now, to find that he was gripping the Captain’s arm with trembling hands; he quickly released him. “Sorry!” he squeaked.

The Captain attempted his own version of lifting Pat’s spirits. “Come, now, Patrick. You were a leader in your day. One must keep a stiff upper lip, and all that. Let’s keep calm and carry on. It’s merely a trifle of a storm.”

Pat didn’t bother to mention that it wasn’t the storm that bothered him. Nevertheless, he nodded. “That’s what dad always said, too,” he admitted. “‘Stiff upper lip. None of that nonsense. Speak when spoken to.’ Well, you know. He was an army man, too. Very strict.” Pat shuffled his feet, feeling the jitters in his legs again. “Strict, yeah. Lieutenant Lieberman’s household was kept very strictly.”

The Captain shrugged. “As was mine. Shame, I never encountered any Liebermans during my time in the war. I would have liked to meet him. He sounds a reasonable fellow.”

Pat smiled. “You’d think so,” he said. The Captain, however, had already resumed their previous conversation, and Pat continued walking beside him.

* * *

The moon was only nearly full, but its glow was a marvelous spotlight on their home. Pat admired it from the yard from where he had a pleasant seat on the couch that Alison and Mike had neglected to move as of yet.

He’d very much like to camp out in the woods, one of these days. Perhaps Alison could set up a small tent, and Pat would be able to crawl into it whenever he liked and act as though it was another camping night with the boys. He would keep the lamp on, just in case one of them needed him. He would think about Carol and Daly, safe at home. And he would get a wonderful, dreamless night of sleep under the stars.

There were no footsteps, of course, with all of them being dead, but Pat was able to sense someone approaching, anyhow.

“It’s quite late for you,” Thomas sniffed, perching himself upon the arm of the old couch. Pat thought in that moment that he looked rather like a secretary bird, wings pulled back and beak turned up.

In all honesty, the candles that Alison had lit in Pat’s room had gone out, and Pat had felt so crushed by the increasing darkness that he had practically run out the door.

“Oh, I’m just...admiring the night,” he replied.

“It is quite nice,” Thomas admitted. “Somewhat dull, but an artist must find the beauty or abject evil in all things. It’s not an easy job, no, I’ll be the first to say it. But it is a human constant.”

Pat wanted nothing more than to roll his eyes, but merely considered the last comment. “I suppose so. You do keep busy with it.” His gaze returned to the sky. “And it is calming, to see beauty in everyday things, and find peace in that. I’ve always enjoyed nature, myself. Sometimes I prefer it to a roof over my head. It’s peaceful, when it’s just you and the sky. It’s always there for you, even when you can’t see it.”

“Peace,” Thomas repeated, then shrugged. “Perhaps. There’s more than that, of course. Beauty, love, lust–” (Pat _did_ roll his eyes at that.) “–for example!” Thomas threw his arms wide. “The moon! O! she is a lustrous stone, that into a lake of ink was thrown.”

Pat had to admit, it wasn’t half bad.

“Her shape and figure make my loins–”

Nevermind. _Nevermind._

“Ah– Thomas,” Pat interrupted. “That sounds quite nice, but, er–” He scrambled for an excuse, “–it’s nearly dawn– I would ask Julian or Alison to help you write that down before you forget.”

Thomas jumped up from his perch. “You’re quite right! This could be my magnum opus!” With that, he fled into the house, no doubt about to create a din.

Pat returned his attention to the grass, the night sky, and the trees in the distance, savoring the quiet while he could. The peace he found in that moment washed everything else away.

* * *

The woods were never quiet. There were always birds calling out and crickets responding, leaves rustling amongst themselves, seeds and pollen captured by a breeze to be taken to who knows where. Scoutmaster Cody Rogers loved this constant orchestration of noise that greeted him and his troop when they would venture out for their camping trips. Even in the dead of night, it was never silent.

Especially when one of his scouts was up and about instead of asleep in their tent. It wasn’t for the bathroom, either– Scoutmaster Rogers could hear someone walking back and forth, moving towards his tent before retreating, as if pacing.

Pacing? What could a kid have to philosophize about at half-past two in the morning?

Rogers snatched up his knife, just in case, before crawling out of his tent with his lantern to identify the perpetrator.

“What are you doing out of your tent?”

The poor boy froze on the spot, but dutifully turned around to face his superior.

Rogers sighed.

“Pat, it’s far too late for you to be out of your tent at all. You should be sleeping. We have a lot to learn tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Pat was staring at his shoes and kept a defeated posture. Scoutmaster Rogers hesitated on giving him another order. It wasn’t at all like Pat to break the rules at all. Camping trips were his absolute favorite, and though he could often be anxious with both worry and excitement, he always did just as he was told, and worked hard to be the most prepared scout in the troop. Leaving his tent for seemingly no reason and walking around in the dark was contrary to his character.

Rogers softened his voice considerably. “Are you alright?” he prodded. When the scout didn’t respond, he added, “If there’s anything troubling you, I’d like to know. That’s always more important than any activity, remember?” Pat nodded miserably, but still didn’t say anything.

“If you need me to, I can contact your parents and get you home–”

“No!” Pat cried, his head snapping up. “No, please, I don’t want to leave! Please don’t call home!”

“Shhh, shhh!” Rogers put his lantern and knife down so that he could put his hands on Pat’s shoulders in an attempt to placate him. “No, no, no, you’re not to worry. I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. I’d just like to know what the matter is.”

The boy looked near tears, but kept them at bay. After a long minute of nothing, he finally admitted, “It’s just that– it’s very dark. I...I don’t like how dark it is in my tent, sir.”

There was another pause. “Is that all?” Rogers affirmed. Pat nodded, looking quite ashamed of himself. Rogers could understand why, with the only qualities set up for boys these days to follow being a harsh fearlessness and know-how in all situations.

“Hey, come here.” Rogers sat them down on a nearby log, a hand still on his shoulder. “It’s alright to be scared– and perfectly natural, too. The fact that you face that every night is a testament to your bravery.”

Pat’s eyes were wide. “I’m...brave?” It very well could have been the very first time he had said those words together.

“Absolutely. I mean, look at you! Not even a teenager yet and you’re traversing through the wilderness like one of those Yankee frontiersmen!” He lowered his voice, just in case any of the other boys was awake. “Not to mention that you’re one of my best scouts.”

That very nearly brought a smile to the boy’s face, but the doubt didn’t take long to return. “But...how can I be brave when I’m too scared to sleep in my tent without a light?”

Scoutmaster Rogers said, “I assume you’re used to sleeping with a night light on in your room?”

To his surprise, Pat shook his head, no longer daring to make eye contact; he kept his gaze on his hands, which he wrung in anguish. “No, sir. My dad doesn’t allow it. He says I’m too big to have one.” He stuttered for a moment, before continuing in a whisper.

“It’s always so dark in my room, there’s only one window, and my dad– I always hear him stumbling around, and– and yelling, at night. I’m always afraid that he’ll storm into my room. And in m-my tent, it’s just– it’s so dark in there, it feels like I’m– I’m back in my room when he locks my door, and it’s–” Pat’s voice wobbled and cut off; the child hung his head and didn’t say another word.

The situation opened itself up to Rogers with only those short couple of sentences offered to him. He recalled Pat’s father well, now: A veteran, not yet forty years old, always accompanied by purple bruises under his eyes and a drunk scent about him. Pat had only just turned twelve, but Rogers could recall witnessing the boy’s father– a harsh and fearless military man– accosting him in public for his posture and natural sunny demeanor, as if anything his son enjoyed was an embarrassment to their entire family.

No wonder Pat didn’t want him calling home. Scoutmaster Rogers couldn’t imagine what would be in store for the boy if his father thought he couldn’t last a single night out camping.

Gingerly, he placed his arm around Pat’s shoulders. He was glad when he felt him lean into it, if only slightly. There was far too much of a taboo on affection for Rogers’s taste, and he could tell that society was starved for it. He could see it especially in Pat, who was sniffling quietly.

“If I can’t face my fears and be brave, then I’ll never be good at anything!” he confessed.

Rogers opened his mouth to ask who on earth had told him that, but he already knew the answer.

“Never?” he challenged. “At anything?”

Pat nodded, expression defeated and morose.

“So those patches you earned don’t mean anything?” Rogers asked. “You’ve got more than any other boy in your troop. You might need to wear two sashes just to hold them all!” He pointed at the dead campfire. “And who’s the best at making a fire out of almost nothing? And who knows how to tie the most knots? _And_ , most importantly, who does the best Elvis impression I’ve ever seen?”

That finally got a smile out of Pat. “Me.”

“That’s right! So don’t let me hear you ever say anything like that again. You’ll be a scoutmaster before you’re out of school at this rate. Either that, or you’ll be the new Bill Haley.”

Pat chuckled before he returned to frowning. “But I’m still afraid of the dark.”

Rogers sighed. “Unfortunately, I can’t change the fact that it’s nighttime. It’ll be dark until morning, I’m afraid, and you have to get some sleep.”

Pat looked up and shook his head, though, a pleading, hopeful look on his face. “The dark outside doesn’t scare me, sir. Just inside the tent.”

Rogers pursed his lips, considering what Pat was asking for. There were rules, of course, and he certainly didn’t want to show favoritism; he hadn’t, after all, given any of the other boys permission to sleep outside of their tents. (Then again, he didn’t think any of them would be particularly thrilled at that notion.) Being a scout _was_ all about learning to survive outdoors, though, and what better way to do that than to be rid of shelter altogether?

In the end, Scoutmaster Rogers refused to be complicit in harming a child.

He nodded in agreement. “Alright, Pat. But you make sure you have a blanket and a knife, yeah? And be up on time. No dilly-dallying.”

Pat was positively beaming, and Rogers couldn’t help but smile back. He had led many scouts in his time, but Pat stood out to him as one of the sweetest he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Anyone who couldn’t appreciate that was truly lost, in his opinion.

“You’re very gifted, Pat,” Rogers said. “I’m proud of you.”

There was a moment of complete stillness before Pat threw himself at Rogers in a suffocating, desperate hug. He pulled back before the scoutmaster had a chance to react at all.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. Then he was gone to retrieve his blanket from his tent.

The next morning, Pat was up before everyone else. When Scoutmaster Rogers asked, he said that it had been the best sleep of his life.

* * *

The wind was howling with such ferocity that it seemed a miracle that all of the windows and walls were still intact– or that it wasn’t rocking back and forth in the storm.

In winter, reliable snow was not common. Cold, damp, dreary weather was a given. A snow storm, however, was quite rare.

Pat was excited to watch it; in fact, he was moving throughout the mansion, finding new windows to peer through to see the snow piling up. He felt positively giddy, and could remember the rare occasion of school being canceled during winter. Once his father left for work, Pat’s mum would bundle him up and send him off to play outside. (“Two rules, love,” she’d say. “Be back before your father’s home, and have barrels of fun!”) She always had hot cocoa and biscuits waiting for him at home once he had tuckered himself out for the day.

Pat moved away from the window in the study. Alison’s room might have a splendid view of the blizzard, though of course he’d have to ask permission first–

Then, it happened again.

The power blinked out.

Pat stopped in his tracks. He could sense his panic rising. There was no light in the house, and the storm blocked any light that might have come from the moon or stars. He was caught in a pitch black emptiness.

Gradually, his vision lightened to a dark gray that encompassed the house, like a layer of dust on a forgotten childhood room. He could see the window he had just left, could hear it rattling, it was nearly as loud as his own ragged breathing.

It was dark. It was _dark_. It was not so much a black blanket as it was a black hole. The sudden dark sucked away all of the warmth and calm Pat had cultivated, and the breath out of his lungs. It left him nothing more than an exposed little boy with sharp needles of anxiety pricking him with shivers. He could feel all of the walls begin to move in on him. He was trapped, locked in, and everything was pressing on all of his limbs and his _chest_ and it was all suffocating him.

His feet were moving. He stumbled through the wall. Down the hallway, one way or the other. Pat didn’t know.

He heard movement behind him. Movement in his direction. The lights were off, and he was being chased.

Pat tried to shuffle faster, but nearly fell through another wall, and he had no idea if it would have him tumbling out into the accumulating snow dunes or not, out into the eddying gusts of wind, he had to stop, to slow down, there was no time, he had to keep moving faster, he was already in trouble and now he was trying to run, he'd never leave his room again–

The full weight of another person collided with Pat, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on the floor.

“Hey!” the other person cried. “What you running for!”

Pat could barely catch his breath, but the gruff voice was so unique that it snapped him back into full understanding of his surroundings. _Button House. Button House. That's right._ “M-me? You’re the one sneaking up and ramming into people!” As he sat up and fixed his glasses, Pat was able to make out a scruffy outline. _Robin._ “I– I was j-just trying to find my way around!”

There was nothing about Pat that _didn’t_ give away the trepidation that had overwhelmed him. His hands and legs were trembling, and the pitch of his voice was a shrieked vibrato.

Robin took one cautious step forward and paused, as if to warn Pat, before closing the rest of the short distance between them and kneeling down to join him on the floor. “Wasn’t trying to scare you,” he assured, voice turned almost soothingly benign. He held up the three-finger salute that Pat had taught them. “Scout honor.”

Pat did his best to collect himself. “Sorry, Robin, I didn’t mean to snap. The dark just...it unsettles me, is all.”

Robin grunted in understanding. “Dark can be scary. Many thing blend in. May look like bear, but almost always, it just big rock.” He shrugged. “But don’t know until you poke with stick.”

It would never cease to amaze Pat how Robin always knew just what to say. He thought about the simplistic metaphor (though it was most certainly a true tale from Robin’s time), and nodded as he saw how it fit together into his own night terrors. No wonder Robin was so good at chess.

“Thank you, Robin,” he said.

“You know, best thing for bear is big fire!” Robin laughed, raising his arms above his head to demonstrate. “That’s what finding you for! Kim Wilde make big fire, scare off all the bear!” He stood and offered his hand, which Pat took, and was hauled to his feet.

The fireplace was, indeed, lit and roaring to outmatch the frigid gales outside. Alison, Mike, and all of the ghosts were convened around it, somehow chatting and arguing simultaneously.

“Ah! Patrick!” the Captain interrupted Julian’s stream of consciousness to announce his arrival. “Splendid of you to join us.”

“We saved you a seat!” Kitty beamed, patting the cushion next to her on the couch. Pat couldn’t help but return her sunny smile in the midst of the blizzard and accept her offer.

“Excellent timing! I was just about to recite my newest poem that Alison has so graciously and elegantly scribed for me!” Thomas announced. At a sharp nudge from Mary, and quite a bit of eyeing from the others, he huffed and tacked on,”With some– ouch, alright!– With _great_ inspiration from our dearly deceased Patrick.”

Pat felt a pleased flush come over him, and his mustache turned up in a grin that he could not keep at bay. “Oh, you mean–? Aw, that was nothing…it was just a small chat we had…”

Next to him, Kitty was vibrating with her excitement. “Oh, to have inspired an _artist_! That is _wonderfully_ special, Pat! I had no idea you were so– so– inspirational!”

“Well he must have been, to encourage a pack of wild children to shoot arrows willy-nilly in my yard!” Fanny pointed out. Nobody could tell if she meant it as an insult or a compliment, or perhaps a mix of the two.

“If you _please_ ,” Thomas prompted, looking once again quite like a besmirched bird. Pat allowed himself a smile at that thought, but took it upon himself to calm the ruckus before it got out of control, and returned all attention to their resident poet.

“Thank you, Pat. Now, my Ode to the Moon!”

He had expanded upon it, for sure. However, while they all held their breaths and waited to be kept up for hours, the entire poem wasn’t more than half a dozen stanzas. Thomas, as always, was breathless with pride once he had finished speaking and signed off with a dramatic flourish.

“Moonah!” Robin cheered, and howled to the ceiling.

“That was beautiful!” Kitty gushed. “That was– oh, it was–!”

“Much shorter than usual,” Julian noted, no trace of disappointment in his voice to be found.

“Well,” Thomas shrugged, “since Pat was the one who led me outside on that night, I figured I should model it a bit after him: Short, sweet, and to the point.”

There then passed a wonderful couple of hours after that of bickering, discussions, and laughter, of course. However, after a point, the fire began to die, and the dark crept closer in on the group. Pat knew that it would soon be time for him to return to his room, alone with his stick and a bear to poke.

Just when the silence had gone on for too long, and someone took a breath to announce their retirement for the night, Alison brightened. “Oh!” she snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot! Nobody move!” She scurried to her room, observed with many sets of peculiar eyes.

Alison returned with an odd item, wrapped semi-haphazardly in brown paper and taped just as well. The shape was quite odd; it wasn’t very large, but she seemed excited to have it.

“I saw this at the store, Pat, and thought you might like it.”

Kitty gasped and clapped her hands together with such enthusiasm that the action was nearly a blur. “Oh, a surprise! I just _adore_ surprises! Do open it, Alison, don’t keep us waiting!”

Pat sat transfixed as Alison unwrapped the gift for him. When all the wrapping paper had been torn away and the item revealed to them, he was glued to the spot. He opened his mouth; he closed it again. There was a blurry sting in his eyes that he attempted in vain to blink away.

“What be that?” Mary inquired, tilting her head to the side. Kitty was doing the same.

Lady Button sniffed at it. “It’s far too rustic for the decor of this house, young lady. And I do mean _rustic_!”

Indeed, the item was quite old, and pockmarked with patches of rust. None of that mattered to Pat, though, who didn’t hear a word the others said about it. He was in a pure state of awe.

It was an old oil lantern, a small handheld one, less than a foot tall, with a dull, chipped coat of red paint and a somewhat dusty globe that would have held the wick within it. To Pat, it struck him with such vivid memories of his own time as a young scout that it looked fresh out of the box.

“Where did you find this?” he managed after swallowing his shock.

“Mike and I poked into an antique shop for fun, and the owner said it was popular in the 50’s and 60’s for boy scouts. Didn’t cost much at all, honestly, and I thought you might like it in your room.”

Pat couldn’t take his eyes off of it, but got himself to nod. “Yeah– yes, that’s–” He pulled himself together. “This is...it’s wonderful. Thank you, Alison.”

The Captain, who often lacked tact entirely, saved poor Pat from having any further attention solely placed on him and piped up. “Quite a practical thing to have, yes! Perhaps you have some good intuition in you after all, Alison. When you’re out in the front lines, having the ability to rely on the basics is always essential to surviving.”

She ignored the combination compliment-slight and continued. “Well, on the topic of camping, I thought that, since the power’s out, and the fireplace is in here, we could light the lantern and have a little scout-themed slumber party.”

Pat and Kitty both gasped in unison.

“Really?” Pat cried. “You mean it?”

Alison shrugged. “Yeah, why not? Mike and I might freeze to death if we don't, anyway.”

“A slumber party!” Kitty squealed. “Oh, we’ll have such fun!”

Lady Button, Thomas, and the Captain looked less than thrilled at the idea, but an intense glare from Alison had all three huffing in agreement.

The fire was re-lit, and the old lantern with it, burning with vigor, as though it hadn’t been dormant for fifty or so years. The ghosts settled themselves on the floor next to the pull-out couch that Alison and Mike occupied.

“Did he like it?” Mike asked, glancing over at what looked to him to be an empty expanse of hardwood floor.

“Very much.”

Mike waved a thumbs-up around, unsure as to where he should be directing it. “Glad you like it!” He sighed and lay back. “I liked being a scout. Wasn’t much good at it, but the camping was nice.”

Alison was silent for a moment, then replied, “He says he thinks you’d make an excellent scout. Maybe even scoutmaster.”

Mike grinned. “Scoutmaster? I like the sound of that.”

Pat couldn’t help but smile as the night wore on, and everyone dropped off. If he closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the wind, and the crackle of the fire, and the steady glow of the lantern, he could imagine himself in his tent outside, dozing in pure content, always ready in case one of his scouts needed him.

Pat was surrounded by friends and blanketed in peace.

Not a single bear reared its ugly head for the entire night.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving kudos and a comment, it means a lot <3
> 
> 1\. The title comes from the song "Walk Like A Man" by The Four Seasons
> 
> 2\. Given the actor's age and the year Pat died, I placed his birth year at 1944/5, so the flashback setting is around 1956/7
> 
> 3\. This is the lamp I imagined Alison finds for Pat: https://www.antiquelampsupply.com/red-dietz-brand-76-the-original-oil-lantern.html


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